


Berlinkalt

by Nomette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomette/pseuds/Nomette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow sits of the roofs of Berlin and Prussia sulks, paces and prowls in his room. The air crackles with cold and the gutters are glassy with ice underfoot. In his basement his things groan and creak their protest against the tyranny of winter; ignoring them, he crossly flops down onto his bed and lets the icy air wash over him.  It stings no more than a splash of water; right now Berlin is submerged in ice, holding its breath until spring, and he is Berlin. If he cracked his bones open there would be ice crystals glimmering in the marrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Berlinkalt

Winter in Berlin

 

Snow sits of the roofs of Berlin and Prussia sulks, paces and prowls in his room. The air crackles with cold and the gutters are glassy with ice underfoot. In his basement his things groan and creak their protest against the tyranny of winter; ignoring them, he crossly flops down onto his bed and lets the icy air wash over him.  It stings no more than a splash of water; right now Berlin is submerged in ice, holding its breath until spring, and he is Berlin. If he cracked his bones open there would be ice crystals glimmering in the marrow.

Right now his people are indoors, sipping mulled wine huddled around tables watching television or just sleeping the day away. Boring. Prussia has slept to exhaustion with sleeping. He has slept for days in the bitter basement cold with his chest carelessly bare and his blankets tangled in his legs. He wants to plan an invasion shoulder to shoulder with his people, he wants to go out and dance at a club until he forgets himself in the crush.

Instead, he walks up to Germany’s portion of the house, feet bare against the wooden stairs. Light from somewhere in Bavaria breaks through a window, drawing a line on the floor which makes a barrier as clear as a wall. This isn’t his house. It’s too warm. There’s too much company for him to ever hang his pictures of Austria and Hungary over the mantleplace and know that no one will ever see them. He shuffles on some sandals and decides against his coat before opening the door into the overcast grey of Berlin.

It’s not that he’s not cold; it’s that the cold is too deep to keep out with clothes. He doesn’t mind. Germany likes him to wear clothes to avoid awkward stares, but fuck him. It’s Sunday and Germany is at work, or working at playing. He’s somewhere else and Prussia is here, in his T-shirt and jeans, white arms obnoxiously bare against his grey T-shirt. He walks down the street looking straight into the wind and turns onto Pariser Platz. Tourists scurry back and forth and he turns up the corners of his mouth without really smiling. Boring.

A woman passes him, stops, and then turns back. He sees her coming, but keeps walking until she plants herself in front of him. She’s not the United States, but she could be. He can see the USA’s smile in her face, catches glimpses of blond hair out of the edges of his vision as she wraps her arms around herself in the universal gesture for cold and looks a question at him. When he doesn’t reply, she asks him if he’s cold in slow, halting English that drops off and stutters into silence as he continues to stare at her. 

“I’m not cold.” He says finally and the English is choppy in his mouth. “We’re used to this kind of thing here.”

“Hardcore!” the woman exclaims. “I thought Minnesotans were serious about cold. You’re crazy!” For that, Prussia gives her the directions she wants before wandering away. It’s started to snow and he heads into the park. He can feel the snow landing all over the city as a faint pressure on his back and he stretches uselessly, brushing the snow off his coat.

The park is deserted. He strolls aimlessly, remembering the days when he strolled through these woods with Fritz at his side. It had been cold then, and Prussia had stripped off his coat and given it to Fritz just to show off.

He sits and waits and stares at the trees for a moment and then sits down at a bench. He lets himself go. He lets himself wake up and leaves his place holder on the bench. First, there are the trees in a ring around him, and he feels his roots push into the ground and then he feels roots pushing into him. He slides out along the ground, along the sidewalks, the cement, the concrete to the Brandeburg Tor on one side and the Siegessaule on the other and then he fractures and runs down the streets, across and under the snow, under the tourists and out out out to the edges where he can feel Brandenburg all around him.

He is Berlin and he feels Berlin, cold and crisp and perfect because it’s his and it’s him, it’s all he has. And in Berlin a thousand tourists march neatly over him with their feet and he watches them with all of his eyes, and sees, and sees, and sees Romano, cross and beautiful, walking in the snow to Germany’s house.

Come here, he thinks without thinking. That’s not who you want. You want me, come to me. He pulls, and it’s tricky, like trying to balance a pin on your hand while moving, but he can do it, and the next street corner Romano turns takes him straight to the corner of the park.  Each nation has different tricks, and this is one of Prussia’s:  seizing that moment when people aren’t paying attention and changing the world before they look back. Romano swears loudly. He seems to think he’s lost, so Prussia pulls open a path for him, a trail right into the underbrush, right in front of him, and when Romano tries to storm back Prussia puts him on the path again anyways.

His streets are arteries and his veins are paths and he feels Romano coming to him like a soft finger traced down his chest.  There’s a reason nations don’t visit each other’s capitals casually. Prussia follows Romano step by step as he stomps down the path, dispenses with buildings and cars and people and stuffs himself into hands and feet and legs laid out on park benches.  He’s a little late; he can’t help but linger outside, watching Romano with his hot breath white in the air.

 “What are you doing all the way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, asshole?” Romano asks and Prussia falls into his body with a jerk. Snow has crusted to his eyelashes.

“Taking a walk.”  He replies easily and without opening his eyes, and fights back a smile. He can almost hear Romano getting angry. “I guess you wouldn’t know anything about walks, since you’re so fat.”

“Fuck you!” Romano says and scowls and stomps over. Prussia can see his face glow with anger even with shut eyes and feel him coming through the ground. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Prussia reaches out to wrap his fingers around Romano and pull him in and he is so warm. Even with gloves between them Romano is like a little tongue of fire. Before Romano can pretend to do some feeble act of violence Prussia pulls him down onto the bench.

“Hey.” He says.

“Hey, yourself asshole!” Romano says and peels Prussia’s hands off. “Open your eyes when you’re talking to me!”

Prussia opens one eye and then closes it deliberately. “You can’t make me.”

Romano takes off his hat and starts hitting Prussia with it across the face. It tingles more than it stings but after a few blows, Prussia grabs Romano and slides him onto his lap. He feels the hot traces where the zipper on Romano’s excessively trendy hat slid across his skin and he smiles. Romano is looking at him with that mixture of defiance and guilt that means he wants to be bullied into apologizing.

“Hey-“ Prussia says. “Gimme a kiss.”

“What?” Romano says.

“Do it.” Prussia says, grinning. Romano’s lips are warm and slightly chapped and Prussia thinks he must be bleeding a little if Romano’s agreed to kiss him but it doesn’t matter.

“How’d you do that with the path?” Romano asks. Romano moves through Rome as easily as opening his fingers, arch to arch, street to street,  but when it comes to others he’s better at leading them astray, sending them stumbling through endless circles until they slink home in defeat. Sometimes Prussia thinks Romano is where Dante got his ideas of hell from, but he never tells Romano that.

“Give me another kiss and I’ll tell you.” Prussia says, and waggles his eyebrows.

“Ew, no, your lips are cold!” Romano complains. “Why are you out here in a T-shirt?”

“I don’t think it makes a difference whether I’m outside or inside.” Prussia says honestly. “Or are you gonna take me to your place?” Romano seems to realize that he’s sitting on Prussia’s lap straddling him and he shifts awkwardly and nearly falls off. Prussia grabs him to steady him and ends up with a handful of Romano ass. 

Romano flushes and glares and gets off in a hurry, then reaches out and says almost apologetically: “It’s better than here. C’mon, let’s go.” His fingers are soft against Prussia’s skin and when they come away they have a delicate smear of blood on them. Prussia licks it off without thinking and something flashes behind Romano’s eyes, something powerful and nameless, like the first time Prussia stuck a fork in a light socket to see what would happen and was transfixed and possessed by a rush that made his hands shake.

Prussia is suddenly warm to his core.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some days you realize that no one had written anything for your OTP, and then you write something yourself. Not sure what to call this, actually. Capital shipping? Hot/Cold Shipping? Can be taken as a side story to All Roads Lead To The Capital if so desired.


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